


Fractured Memories

by StarlightXNightmare



Series: Drawbacks [3]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Body Horror, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gore, Memory Loss, Mentions of Dissection, Murder, Panic Attacks, Split Personalities, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Wally needs a hug, brief appearances of OCs not mentioned by names, i hate myself for torturing characters like this, mentions of experimentation, mentions of torture, they don't deserve this, this made me really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 02:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13940886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightXNightmare/pseuds/StarlightXNightmare
Summary: Boris didn't remember much, other than simply existing of course. Sometimes though... sometimes he'd remember things he's sure he's never done, thought things that made no sense to him, and reacted strangely to odd little things he'd never give a second thought to. But it was all fine. He was surviving, wasn't he? Surviving was all that mattered. No matter what that weird voice in his head screamed, ranted, and raved about.





	Fractured Memories

**Author's Note:**

> I hate myself for this, yet I'm really proud of how I handled writing something as awful as this. Enjoy the suffering.

All that Boris remembered was the wooden confines of the prison that kept all its inky inhabitants trapped and the black ink that flooded the hell they lived in every day. Sure, he recalled the bad man clearly; remembering how he yelled at him for talking, the malicious glint in his eyes when he decided Boris needed to be punished for making a mistake or accidentally talking, [the way Joey Drew, his friend, trapped all his employees in the studio and dragged them down like he did with him!] the way he said he needed everything to be absolutely perfect... but his memories of him had faded over time, leaving him with only the horrors of the ink hell for company. (After the first few times he had been killed, he stopped leaving the safe house as much, avoiding the feral and mindless creatures that roamed the otherwise empty halls of the decrepit studio.)

Other than the wooden walls, black tar like ink, Bendy cutouts, the innumerable cans of bacon soup, the bad man, and the deformed monsters that walked the halls, Boris didn't really remember anything else clearly. He certainly didn't remember how long it's always been like this and it [Mattered so much! Why couldn't he remember how long he was trapped here!?] didn't really matter. Time was unimportant in a place like this: no matter what, they'd always still be trapped, doesn't matter how long it's been, just that they will always be stuck here. Everything was dull and colorless [Why was there no color!?] and that seemed to either make the days blur together or make them move as slow as molasses, especially since there was no sun or moon for him to tell what time of day it was. [God, he missed the warmth of the sun and the soft glow of the moon at night. He missed the twinkling stars that seemingly winked at him when he stared up at them for a bit.] All that Boris knew was that it's been a long time since he was created.

Sure, sometimes, oddly enough, he got fleeting memories of events he doesn't remember or got strong senses of deja vu. He didn't understand that: How could he remember certain events he's never participated in or seen before? Besides the strange feelings of deja vu and the fleeting memories, he always felt like he was forgetting something [He was forgetting to try and get outta here! He needed to warn the others about Joey's madness before they became victims like he had!], and it felt important; more important than anything in his entire life.

But no matter how important it appeared to be, he could never seem to remember it. He supposed the fact that his mind was so fuzzy didn't help either; his concentration was poor and it hurt to think too deeply on things. If he tried to catch those elusive memories, they'd disappear completely or he'd have a strong grasp on them before they slipped through his gloved fingers like sand until he was left with one or two memories with no context.

Normally those memories were confusing: Angry yelling from [Sammy] a blond haired man who was shaking a ring of keys in front of him; laughter made up of multiple voices as something funny was said; sweeping a booth while chatting happily with [Norman; dad] the man who ran it; speaking into a microphone with a funny voice his Boris voice while grinning [he couldn't believe he got the part]; joking with a guy with an odd accent while he painted smiles onto Bendy dolls [Shawn. Oh god, Shawn! He had to find him and warn him]; helping a big man with a low, gruff voice [Thomas] fix the ink pipes with minimal talking; asking a tired man [Henry; his name was Henry] hunched over his desk if he had seen his keys or not because he lost them again [God, he lost his keys again! Sammy'll be pissed... Where are they?].... But the most important thing he remembered was an odd little song, sounding cheery and upbeat. He couldn't remember if there were any words that went along with it, but he could remember the melody well enough to hum it and hum it he did. He was scared if he didn't hum it constantly that he'd forget the only thing that seemed to calm him down.

Other than the memories, Boris didn't really recall much else. He may have odd unexplained habits, but it wasn't anything worth obsessing over. Like how he impulsively cleaned the whole safe house when he had gotten stressed, scrubbing at the disgusting, corrupted ink until it was all gone, [He couldn't get anymore on him! He couldn't get it off; why wouldn't it get off!?] reorganized everything multiple times before making it a mess so he could clean everything up again, and how he sorted through the things he needed or wanted and put everything else in boxes or on shelves. Or how he'd always hum the same familiar tune to himself over and over again (because it sounded familiar and familiar was good nice) until his throat burned and his unused voice ached, struggling to remember why the song was so important to him other than liking it. Or how he cried when he listened to the tapes outside the safe house yet not knowing why the voices upset him so much [He had to warn them; he had to save them; he had to prevent them from becoming like him!] Or how he always tugged self consciously on his ears and felt his rounded snout, not knowing why they bothered him so much [He wasn't supposed to be a stupid cartoon dog! What did Joey do to him!?]. Or how he always rubbed the same spot across his neck [God, Joey cut open his throat and severed his vocal chords!] Or how he panicked, hurting himself in the process then not remembering how he got hurt. Or how he always stared blankly at the disturbing scrap art on the wall of the safe house, not remembering when he made it, but not having the heart to tear it down and get rid of it: It felt too personal to just throw it away like that. Or how he lost parts of his memory of the hour, day, or even sometimes days, blacking out and then waking up with a killer headache.

But everything was perfectly fine Boris told himself. He hadn't blacked out or lost his memory in a while now, and he was safe from the Searchers, the delusional prophet, the Butcher Gang clones, the Angel, and even the Ink Demon himself. He hadn't been experimented on in a long time or had his inky organs harvested from him. He was surviving and that's all that really mattered... right?

/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\

The first time Wally had been aware of himself was right when he entered the ink puddles after Joey had sacrificed him to whatever "gods" he served. After he had been nearly drowned in the ink under the spigot and Joey had dumped him in the Ink Machine, left too weak to even try and keep his head above the ink. After the corrupted ink had eaten away at his flesh and flushed the blood out of his veins and his consciousness had merged with the others in the ink.

Voices rang out around him constantly: there were screams, sobs, yells, whispers, and cries of pain, fear, rage, and sorrow. Someone was laughing and crying, hiccupping sobs the only indication that they were crying through their laughter. Many voices he was able to pinpoint as interns or musicians whom Joey had said quit or had gotten sick. He had been friends with a lot of them considering he cleaned the building everyday and most had chatted with him at lunch or when he was heading in the same general direction as them.

"What happened!? Where am I!?"

"It hurts! It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, I T  H U R T S!"

"Oh god, he sacrificed us to his phony gods! He killed us! I knew he was delusional and slightly unhinged, but not on the level he'd kill someone!"

"It's too loud! Make it stop! Stop yelling! Be quiet! Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

"I have to tell the others! We have to tell the others! They could end up trapped like me! Like us! I have to warn them! We have to warn them! They have to get out! They have to get out before he gets to them too!"

"Who all is here!? How many of us are here!? Does our families even know we're gone!? Do our friends even know we're gone!?"

"He lied! He lied to me! He lied to us! He lied to us all! He hurt us! I'm going to kill him! The piece of shit deserves to die! He deserves to fucking burn in hell! I hope he gets a fate worse than death! I hope this machine is the death of him!"

"I want to die! Please, I want to die! Someone kill me! Please, kill me! Why can't I just die!? Why am I so useless!? I just want it to end! I want it to stop! I want it to stop hurting! What did I do to deserve this!? Did I do something wrong!? I'm sorry if I did! I'm so sorry! I'm so, so, so, so, so sorry! I won't do it again! Just kill me! I want the pain to stop!"

"What's the fucking point!? Who cares!? Everything's useless! We're dead! It doesn't matter! We don't matter! Nothing matters! Nothing's ever mattered!"

"Why can't I remember anything!? Why can't I remember my name!? Why can't I remember what I did!? Why can't I remember my family!? Why can't I remember my friends!? I want to remember! Let me remember! Please, I want to remember!"

"We're trapped! We're trapped, we're trapped! We're stuck! We're stuck, we're stuck! Trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped! Stuck, stuck, stuck, stuck!" 

He could only distinctly hear a fraction of the workers Joey said had quit or gotten sick but he could hear other voices jumbled it the mess. He could only imagine that some of the quieter ones were remaining silent or just that their voices were drowned out by the louder ones. He was beyond horrified. This is where they all went? They weren't safe at home, working another safer, less demanding job? They were trapped just like him...?

With that thought, he joined in on the screaming, in inconsolable tears.

"GET ME OUTTA HERE!"

/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\

Being stuck in the ink with all the others was a hell in itself. While he was glad he wasn't all alone, he wondered if it would've been better to be. All the yelling, screaming, crying, and laughing never ended; it never ceased. They needed no sleep but it would've been impossible to sleep anyway with all the noise. It hurt so much, and it wouldn't stop, no matter how much he and the others pleaded for it to be silent for one moment.

After yelling for god knows how long, he resorted to crying. He was in a constant state of panic; he was in an everlasting panic attack and no one was there to comfort him or calm him down. But it didn't matter, not really at least. He was just another voice in the ink. He could've sworn more people joined the cacophony of other voices, but he wasn't sure. He didn't really trust himself anymore anyways.

It felt like he was in there for eternity, yet it felt as if he had just entered the screaming well of ink. The noise was all that existed and it crowded in his head, forcefully shoving memories aside in the smallest part of his brain. The only thing he could focus on were the words others and himself screamed and cried, and even then, they went in one ear and out the other, leaving him a scrambling mess trying to pick up words and memories as he cried, pleading for someone to make the noise, the pain, the torture sop; to make everything stop.

He didn't even realize the machine had been turned on to spit out some ink until it was rumbling, roaring over the screams of the disembodied voices he'd become trapped with. The screams pleading and crying had morphed into screams of pain and the noise tripled, pounding into his head, making him queasy as he howled in pain. It felt like the very fabric of his existence was being stretched thin and bunched together over and over again as he was being yanked from the rest of the people in the ink. He was pulled through the ink until he felt himself being compressed. His screams soon overtook the others.

He hadn't noticed that the screams of the other inhabitants of the ink had been silenced and that he was the only one screaming bloody murder.

His liquidy form fell from the spigot of the machine and hit the ground with sickening squelch and splatter, sending drops of black ink flying in several different directions. It felt as if someone had stretched a thick layer of ink over his skin that was slowly suffocating him. His legs were nonexistent, just a puddle of ink on the ground before a waist formed upward into half of a body. His limbs felt heavy and numb, his arms dangling at his sides weakly, half glued to his sides with his right arm much longer than his stumpy left one. His fingers were clumpy and different sizes, missing one or two on each hand. His back was hunched forward at a painful bowing stance, ridges of his spine and his ribs peeking out visibly. His eye sockets were hollow, devoid of any eyeballs yet he could see through the ink on his body as if he had eyes. His cheeks and the rest of his face was sunken, his mouth stuck in a gaping gasp. He could still feel the soft buzz of the other voices screaming in the core of his very being. He couldn't hear what they were saying clearly anymore; their voices mere whispers now, but they were still present, making his ears ring and his head pound.

Everything was a blurry, fuzzy mess of tan and black. His "eyes" burned at the specks of light scattered throughout the room, dancing on the ground. The light made him recoil and flinch back, sluggishly scooching backward. A garbled cross between a hiss and a groan left his gaping wide mouth. His hands vainly tried to come and cover his empty eye sockets, his left remaining stubbornly stuck to his side with his right not even obeying his instinctual commands.

A blurry figure leaning on some odd crutch like object stood in the doorway of the room with something vaguely rectangular in their hands. Their head was turned down to the object in their hands, not paying any attention to the screaming inky being. The sound of some foreign, ancient language filling his head, pushing past the slight buzz and jumble of memories fueled his panic. The small specks of light flared, growing bigger until they seared his vision.

He tried to move towards the figure only to find that once he took a stagnant step forward that he run into an invisible wall. His "eyes" wandered down to see a large, blurry shape drawn in ink underneath him. He tried to move past it again and saw he couldn't leave the area of the shape. He let out a screeching wail, feeling his mind bend under the strain of his panic. The chanting of the figure at the other end of the room only grew louder, trying to rise above his agitated and pained ululating.

The rapidly dripping ink on his body morphed. It shot him up a good three or four feet, giving him long legs and proportioning his mismatched arms out. The hunch in his back was straightened out with a crack. He felt something other than the thick ink covering most of his upper body and all of his lower body and looping around his shoulders with nothing on his arms yet more encased his hands. Long ears stretched up from out near the top of the sides of his skull, adding another good foot to his height. He could feel eyes forming from the ink inside his skull, the balls pushing through his inky skull and into his eye sockets with a spine shuddering pop! His vision snapped into focus, the blurring and fuzziness disappearing in a snap. The buzzing in his head subsided, the faint voices of the others fading out of existence. 

He nearly didn't notice any of these changes because of the fact that these changes brought about a rush of excruciating pain all through his entire body. The ink making up his melting, oozing body solidified, trapping him in the shell of his rapidly changing body, paralyzed. His screams of pain doubled with him barely stopping to choke in a pained gasp of air before he'd wail again. His bones were being stretched and pulled, his ink skin stretching to accommodate his bone structure's new size. He fell to his knees, bringing his lanky arms back to claw at his face as he felt the bottom half of his face stretch out about a foot. 

As scary as his body morphing into a brand new shape and height was, it was nothing compared to the sensation of his mind giving way. His panicked thoughts fell away slowly, plunging into a dark abyss. He could only howl and wail in terror as he felt what little was left of his mind s l  i   p    a     w      a       y       .        .         .          .          .

/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\\*/*\

Boris was surviving in this hell perfectly fine other than occasionally getting caught and killed, however he always seemed to be brought back. That was [Horrible. Why couldn't he stay dead?] fine to him. Boris would prefer living for as long as possible. So yes, everything was going [Horribly! Terribly! Nothing else could possibly go wrong!] about as well as it could possibly be going.... No matter what that weird voice in his head said otherwise. 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes for anyone who is confused:
> 
>         What little was left of Wally rarely made an appearance as Boris. Most of the time all that resurfaced was vague memories or odd habits Boris picked up as well like the cleaning and panic attacks. When Boris seemed to get a flash of deja vu or a glimpse of a memory, that was really the part of Wally remembering things subconsciously. Whenever Boris cried when hearing the tapes was actually Wally. Whenever Boris blacked out was when Wally took control. The song he remembered was an Irish tune Shawn used to hum while he worked and he also hummed it to Wally when he went into a stuttering panic, which is why it was so important to him. Sometimes Wally would have enough sense to think sluggishly at the same time as Boris, hence the scrambled thoughts the poor wolf had to deal with. That doesn't happen too often though, seeing as Wally will lose his grip on reality. The double thoughts only happen for a couple of minutes to hours to even a full day or two before they disappear for an unknown amount of time and the cycle begins all over again.
> 
>         Occasionally, Wally would somehow get control over Boris's body often times when something set him off like a familiar sight, habit, or sound. Sometimes it'd be completely random. Whenever Wally did get the front seat, so to speak, he dissolved right into a panic attack, not understanding where he was, what had happened, and more often than not, who he was. He'd claw at himself, desperately trying to get the ink off his body. This left Boris with all the injuries to tend to once Wally was lost once more to the inky abyss of the cartoon wolf's mind.
> 
>         Bendy was the one who kept reviving Boris each time he died, using the Ink Machine. Joey didn't want his perfect cartoon dying after all.
> 
>         Essentially Boris and Wally became one person, however since he wasn't absolutely perfect (Wally's voice still remaining because a tiny part of Boris was also based off of Sammy) Wally's personality wasn't completely erased, meaning Wally's thoughts was spilt from Boris's. Boris is kind of like a split personality then: he's not really aware he isn't supposed to exist, he's not aware he used to be someone else, and he's not aware that the "weird voice" in his head is actually the "other half of him" so to speak. When Wally takes over, Boris ceases to exist until Wally loses himself again, but Wally doesn't necessarily cease to exist when Boris is in control because Boris is kind of an extension of him because Boris was only able to exist because his host is Wally, if that even makes any sense. It's like when someone goes through something traumatic and distances themselves from reality, except it wasn't really Wally's choice to do so.
> 
>         I dunno. I probably confused you all even more by adding that. Sorry!


End file.
